A Little-Known Hollywood Legend

There is a Hollywood legend whose impact on show business history is undiminished by time--or the inconvenience of death.  This was a character unlike any other, in appearance, in personality, and in the quality of his conversation.  It was my great good fortune to meet him while he was "still dead."

I am referring to the incomparable, the unforgettable, Abby Greshler.

Wait a minute.  Abby?  A legend?  Abby?--the frail, elfin specter whose shriveled, transparent skin brought to mind a poorly embalmed Yoda?  Who could call that a legend?

Only those who ever encountered him.

Abbe was the agent who represented Tony Randall, Jack Klugman, and other successful celebrities.  Whenever his name was mentioned in knowledgeable, jovial show business circles, the joke was, "Abby?  Is he still dead?"  And, yes, he looked that bad.

Those who loved him, however, and depended on him to keep them employed, made the obligatory comments about his rather ghastly looks and demeanor, but what they truly relished was quoting his famous bon mots, those spontaneous lines that flowed effortlessly from his lips, as if gag writers toiled inside his bald head.

Tony Randall imitated Abby's muddled, "It's six of one, a dozen of the other"--the agent's way of saying there was no quantitative difference between two choices.

"What you need is a disease," he told Tony once.  "The trouble is, all the good ones are gone."  Eventually Abby arranged for Tony to act as a spokesperson in the fight against Myasthenia Gravis.  Tony felt hypocritical, and somewhat guilty, I think, when Ann-Margret's husband, Roger Smith, who had the disease, called him in a panic.  Tony didn't know what to do and complained to Abby about being in an untenable position.  "You don't need to know anything," Abby told him, "to talk about it."

I had seen Abby around Paramount before, but was not formally introduced to him until Tony's last night at the "Sonny and Cher Show."  Abbe and I sat together in the audience when Tony left us to do his skit.

"What funny lines did you write?" was the first thing Abby said to me.  "Tell me some of 'em, I'll tell you what I think."

"What did he think?--that I was auditioning as a comic?  If I had been, maybe I could've come up with some hilarious response to put him in his place.  Instead, I sat in stiff silence until the show--all of which I've forgotten, thanks to Abby--was over, and Tony came to rescue me.

On the way out, he stopped to say good night and introduce me to Sonny and Cher.  They were still in full makeup and wearing their usual colorful, glittering costumes.  Cher's exotic beauty was breathtaking and Sonny was adorably cute, but an aura of alienation permeated their dressing room.  It came as no surprise when their marriage ended.  Their faces and body language reflected an emotional distance which separated them even as they worked so closely and successfully together.

Meeting these two sad superstars--and the dear but deadly Abby--left me feeling less than uplifted.  Tony, always a little uncomfortable with genuine emotion, attributed all sorrow to the perils of show business.  He gave me his orange and black script to cheer me up.

It didn't, but somehow, it does now.  Aren't memories funny?